


A Later Date

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: There should be a rule for "Not everything is what it seems", shouldn't there? Maybe Gibbs will come up with one after he sees something he didn't see. Or he didn't see something he thought he saw. Classic "Jumping to Conclusions" trope. Pre-Slibbs, but definitely getting there.





	A Later Date

As he watched her remove the helmet, he wondered if it came natural to women, that inexplicably beautiful motion of shaking their head to release their hair, the bright smile that went with it. He'd never known a woman who didn’t make that look as sexy as hell, and when that woman was Jack Sloane, he wasn't sure he'd seen anyone who could set his body on fire the way she could. 

Or maybe that was his jealousy manifesting as heated anger. 

Because she wasn't on that motorcycle alone; she was a willing, happy, flirty passenger to the clone of every male model he'd seen gracing the men's magazines he pretended not to look at in line at the grocery store. Solid, broad shoulders, blond hair that probably took more time in a day to style than he had ever spent in his lifetime. A wide, straight, gleaming smile met hers as she said something just low enough to be private, before she tossed the helmet at him. He'd give the guy some credit- he'd obviously let Jack use the only helmet on the bike, the chivalry evident when Male Model sacrificed his perfectly coiffed hair and pushed the helmet on, but not before Jack could loop an arm around his shoulder and kiss his cheek. Again, she shared a private word and again, they both laughed. 

He had never felt so old.

…..

She all but bounced across the parking lot, the weekend air still lifting her feet.

“Hey, Cowboy,” she greeted, bumping him shoulder to shoulder.

“Where’ve you been?”

His curt greeting took some of the wind out of her sails, but her smile prevailed. “I was in Pennsylvania for the weekend. It was good to get away.”

“I tried callin’.”

They got into the garage elevator and she was able to take him in for the first time. Tired. He looked so damn tired. Stress cut lines across his brow and between dull red-rimmed eyes. There was the tiniest shake in his hand that curled around his coffee cup, leading her to believe he had been sustaining on nothing more than caffeine and adrenaline since she had last seen him on Friday.

“I told Leon I was going away for the weekend. I told you. You held the elevator for me and told me to have a good time.”

He dismissed the facts and went with emotion. “Yeah, well that was Friday, about 2 hours before Neil Harper was found in a ravine with his mother. You should’ve been here.”

“Pardon me?”

His eyes stayed on the ever-changing numbers above the door. “I needed you. On this case,” he quickly added. “Two and a half days have been wasted because you made yourself unavailable.”

“You mean, I was living my life?” The joy of the weekend was clinging to its glow, and she’d be damned if he was going to take the shine off it. “You solved cases long before I got here using nothing more than chewing gum and your gut. Don’t blame me when you’re all out of gum.” The bell chimed, announcing their floor. "Bring me the file and I'll have a look."

The dismissal rankled him; he wasn't used to being on the receiving end. The way she shifted the power to force _him_ to go to _her_ was like bringing a can of gasoline to an inferno.

"I'm the lead on this- you come to me."

"Nope," she replied with intentional sweetness. "Last I checked, I worked for NCIS." She swirled her finger around the room she had just entered from the elevator. "Last I checked, that meant the office as a whole, not just Jethro Gibbs."

He wouldn't count that as the first time she said his name, didn’t want to remember her saying it with such flatness when he had imagined her saying it a number of other ways. Breathless, laughing, moaning. By the time he could think of a retort, she had taken the legs he had coveted (along with everything else) and gracefully ascended the stairs to her office.

…..

His three agents sat in various stages of undead, eyes glazed if open at all. He might have some measure of sympathy if Jack hadn't just left his heart twisting in the wind, if he could just wipe the image of Neil Harper from his mind. Instead, he slapped his hand hard on Tim's desk, rousing the agent from his half-sleep state.

"Nothing yet, Boss," he automatically blurted.

"Take the file up to Agent Sloane."

"Boss?"

"What part of that didn't you hear, McGee?"

"None of it. I mean, I heard all of it." His stammer was full of confusion. "I just figured you'd like to take-"

"Well don't 'figure'. She's decided to grace us with her presence. Better take advantage of it."

Torres and Bishop shared a look at the meanness under his words. When Nick went to open his mouth to comment, Ellie vehemently shook her head.

Heeding her silent warning, he started with information instead. "Lieutenant Harper's husband was on the USS Pacific at the time of her death. Rules him out."

"Does it rule his friends out, Torres?"

"They were 3 days into a joint military exercise that required a complete communication blackout, Gibbs. No way he could've set it up from the ship."

"And there's no way he could've set it up before he left for the ship?"

Everyone knew it was a rhetorical question set to trap Nick up. The agent sidestepped the pitfall by saying, "I'll check his phone records farther back."

"What've you been doin' for three days, Torres?"

Tim coughed and stood. "I'll get the file to Agent Sloane."

Torres and Bishop watched with a wistfulness at Tim's departure, envying the escape. 

"We were able to track the suspect's movements by piecing together angles from the street cameras in the area, but once he got off the main streets, we lost him," Bishop braved.

"Lost him?"

"He was on foot. He walked one block west of where the bodies were found, then went down a side street. Never came back on camera."

"Well he's not Houdini," Gibbs barked. "Find him."

Torres jumped in to help. "There's a convenience store on the corner where he walked by. Maybe the store has their own camera."

The news brought no reprieve from his ire. "So why are you two here?"

"It's 8:30," Bishop answered. "They don't open until 10."

"Then go and wake them up!"

Torres stormed to the elevator, practically dragging Ellie behind him. "We better find something or the next body that turns up will be Gibbs." 

…..

The knock was soft and uncertain, and since Gibbs was neither of those things, she lifted her attention from the computer to the door with less dread than she might have otherwise. While leaving Gibbs standing in the elevator threshold, gloriously handsome in his quiet rage, was satisfying at the time, that satisfaction had melted into a disappointment in herself that she’d rather keep quiet. Not being Gibbs on the other side of the door saved her from an apology she knew she should make.

“Come in.”

Despite the invitation, Tim still peeked into the office. “Agent Sloane?”

“Agent McGee,” she volleyed back with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. “I thought you might like to see the file on the Harper case.”

“You thought, huh?” 

The question was kind and he noted it with a sheepish shrug. “It might have been Gibbs’ thought.”

She nodded and invited him closer. “I’m amazed he got that thought out through his gritted teeth.”

“I think he’s somehow perfected a way to speak without actually opening his mouth,” Tim hypothesized, much to Jack’s amusement. 

Slipping on her glasses, she opened the file and skimmed its contents. “This is it?”

“I know, not much. Believe me, I know.”

She knew he had heard enough of it from Gibbs. “No,” she corrected him, “I just wanted to make sure everything was here.”

Over the last 3 days, he had become conditioned to receive an onslaught, but when it didn’t come from Jack, his shoulders relaxed ever-so-slightly for the first time in days. Jack offered a sympathetic smile. “How much of a bear has he been?” She wouldn’t have asked the question of either Torres or Bishop, worried that it might undermine Gibbs, but she knew Tim had a longer history with him than anyone.

He shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ sort of way. “You know how he gets with kids. Mix that with the fact that you went away for the weekend, and you get Hurricane Gibbs.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to feel bad about that,” she admitted. “He tried to call and I didn’t answer. He made no secret about how much that upset him.”

Tim tilted his head and looked at her through curious narrowed eyes. “I don’t think that’s entirely why he was upset.”

Now it was her turn to look at him curiously. “What do you mean?” He seemed to be having an internal debate with himself, which Jack nipped in the bud with a sternness that was not unlike a certain Special Agent. “Tim?”

His shoulders tightened again. “I’m just saying, you spent the weekend in Pennsylvania with a man who Bishop succinctly described as ‘hot’.” 

The memory came back to Jack; she had showed the cottage where she’d be staying, and in the photo was the owner and her friend, the same blond friend who had dropped her off at NCIS that morning. Bishop’s declaration of Peter’s attractiveness was heard by all in the small bullpen. Including Gibbs. As the pieces fell into place, Jack couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s not what it looks like. He’s-” she began, but the mirth soon gave way to the annoyance that she would have to explain anything to anyone. “He’s nobody’s business.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t asking. I was just pointing out some things that you might want to be aware of. Because I’m suddenly realizing I don’t think you are. Aware of it. Of Gibbs.” She held his gaze for several seconds, expecting more, but he was giving none. “Anyway, look over the file. We could really use your help on this.” Before she could properly decipher his cryptic words, he was gone.

She tossed her glasses onto the file, knowing she wouldn't be able to give it the attention it deserved until she had worked her way through Tim's words. Could it be that in all the time she had been thinking about her own feelings for Gibbs, she hadn't thought about his? That she had found it impossible to tell him, when all this time he had felt the same? Her brain parsed the idea and told her not to be stupid; if Gibbs had wanted her to know how he felt (if he felt anything), surely he would have simply told her. That's what her head said. Her heart- and admittedly places farther south than that- said, hoped otherwise.

She ran her hands through her hair, exhaling deeply before putting on her glasses and starting with the crime scene photos. Her own personal investigation would have to wait.

…..

Despite her morning order, she knew he wouldn’t come to her, and sending Tim up with the file was proof. So reluctantly, but with spine straight and head held high, she came down the stairs with folder in hand. Torres and Bishop weren’t there, likely on some errand he barked at them, or perhaps finding a small escape. Tim’s fingers clacked over the computer keyboard, but she couldn’t tell what he was doing. Perhaps looking busy was his own kind of self-preservation in the wake of the storm cloud that sat at the far desk. 

As she came around the corner, she lightly tapped Tim’s shoulder and said, “Can you get me a coffee? You look like you could use a break.” When his eyes nervously glanced over to Gibbs, she stood in front of his line of sight. “As someone who’s responsible for this team’s mental health, I’m telling you to take a break, Agent McGee.” 

Her body was a barrier against whatever glare was being sent in their direction and it gave Tim just enough courage to say, “Whatever you say, Agent Sloane.” He stood and collected his jacket. In a lowered voice, he asked, “Should I get one for-?” The name remained unspoken, as if saying it out loud would only summon something more dark and dangerous than what they had now.

Jack’s mouth twitched in sympathy for Tim’s fears. “You shouldn’t. But you better. You know how he likes it.”

Nodding, he slipped between Jack and his desk and made a run for the elevator.

“You gonna make a habit out of using my agents to run your coffee errands?”

She felt the words hit her back. Taking a deep breath, she turned. “I thought we’d avoid risking another scene like this morning. The kids get upset when Mom and Dad fight.”

He ignored her jibe. “You got something on the case or are you just gonna sass me all day?”

She walked over to his desk and dropped the file on his keyboard. “I think you’re looking at it from the wrong perspective.” No sense peeling off the Band-Aid, she thought, and she got the exact response she anticipated.

“Wrong perspective?” His question was an indignant accusation.

“You’re looking for a suspect. I don’t think there is one.” Before he could bite out another question, she continued, “I think Lieutenant Harper killed her baby, then herself.”

“Based on what?”

“My experience. My gut.” She flipped open the folder and took out a photo. “See how the baby is wrapped? That’s care and concern.”

“Maybe she had the baby wrapped before she got killed.”

“Toxicology came back with extremely high traces of zolpidem, which is a sleeping sedative. Women who choose to commit suicide are more inclined to do it in a less violent way- cutting their wrists or overdosing on medication.”

“Or the suspect gave it to her to make it easier to move her.”

She shook her head. “Have you ever tried moving a semi-conscious person? And believe me, she would’ve been; zolpidem works within minutes.”

Clenching his jaw, he said, “Palmer thinks it was blunt force trauma to the head.”

“No,” she disagreed gently. “He noted a wound to her forehead that was consistent with blunt force trauma.”

“We’ve got a suspect fleeing the scene.”

“Was he fleeing or was he running for help? How fast did the call come in after you lost sight of him?”

He sat back, tired and sore. His hands rubbed over his face, trying to stir up just one last push of energy to get him through until McGee came back with coffee. “Walk me through it.”

A nearby chair got pulled over, and she quietly appreciated his chivalry. “I think she was depressed that her husband was frequently away and she had to deal with the baby on her own. Postpartum depression isn’t out of the question. Check the Lieutenant’s prescription history; she may have been given a sleep aid without the doctor being aware of other problems. I think she took the baby not to the ravine but to the park attached to it. She sat on the bench and smothered the baby.” She purposely chose not to say the boy’s name in an attempt to keep an emotional barrier between the case and their feelings. Still, she could see Gibbs’ eyes go diamond-hard. Jack bit down to continue. “She then took the zolpidem, wrapped the baby close to her, and simply fell asleep.” 

“She fell off the bench and rolled into the ravine.”

She nodded. “Yep. Explains the baby’s fractured collarbone, post mortem.”

Jack was surprised he hadn’t ground his teeth to dust. Leaning his head back, he stared at the ceiling, divining the right thing to do in a sea of wrongs. 

“Okay,” he said at last, sitting upright. “I’ll get McGee to dig into the medical files. Torres and Bishop can do the door knocks, see what the neighbours say.”

She stood, the baton passed to him and his team. “If you need anything else, you know here to find me.”

Unlike their exchange from the morning, this was less of an order and more of an invitation. The steel in his spine had softened and the rage had burned away, leaving him deflated, and she wanted nothing more than to offer him solace. He caught her wrist just as she turned away. Her eyes met his, hoping to prompt a reason for the abrupt stop, but his eyes seemed transfixed on the delicate bones trapped in the circle of his thumb and forefinger. He swallowed and exhaled.

“I should’ntve snapped at you this morning.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed. She wasn’t about to let him off the hook for his bad behaviour, however, “but in light of certain things, I get it. Just… maybe try and keep your shrapnel blast to a smaller radius? You have a tendency to hit everything around you before anyone can take cover.”

He took in her words and nodded, still fascinated by her skin under his touch. “You have a good weekend?”

She was too good of an interrogator to not recognize it in others. “Yes,” she replied breezily, offering nothing more, and she could see how her side-step caused the frown between his brows. “If you want to ask me something, Gibbs, then ask.”

He dropped her hand and looked around for his glasses. “Nope.”

Disappointed yet not entirely surprised, she pulled her glasses from her hair and dropped them on his desk. “I want those back before the end of the day.” His wall-building had precipitated her own and nearly all the bricks were in place by the time she returned to her office.

…..

He hadn’t returned the glasses, the bastard, and now she had to squint to proofread her summary on the case. She was just contemplating getting a Tylenol when she heard a knock on her front door. An attempt to read the clock on the computer was for naught, but the one on the wall read well past midnight. The knock came again and she grumbled, “Coming, coming.” A surreptitious glance through the peephole made her roll back on her heels. Anyone else showing up on her doorstep with her glasses on their head would have gotten a laugh, but it wasn’t anyone else, and she didn’t feel like laughing. Instead, she sighed, but slid the chain back and turned the deadbolt.

“Gibbs.”

“Forgot to give you these,” he said by way of greeting, pointing to the glasses. His lean against the doorway made him look impossibly tall even if his apologetic smile made him look like a boy.

Stepping to the side, she gestured him in. As he walked by, not entirely without a wobble, she caught a familiar smell. “You’ve been drinking.”

“I’ve been winding down,” he countered.

“You’re 2 whiskeys from falling down. Here.” She took his arm and led him to her couch where he dropped unceremoniously into a half-sitting position. When she began taking off his shoes and socks, he pulled his feet back. “You’re not one of those people who don’t like their feet touched, are you?” she asked.

“No. Just wasn’t expecting- _that_.”

His indignation might have made her laugh if she wasn’t so distracted by his arrival. 

“Then you’re going to be really surprised when I tell you to take your clothes off.” His smirk was bold and she nipped it in the bud. “You’re not stinking up my place with your drink and unwashed funk. You’re going to have a shower and I’m going to dig up something for you to wear while these are in the wash.”

“But I just sat down.”

“Yeah, that was my mistake. Come on, get up.” 

She grabbed his hands and hoisted him back to a standing position that brought him flush against her. Despite her complaint of him needing a shower, she felt drawn to him, pulled closer by an invisible force that had her lips hoving over the pulse point in his throat. He was no unwilling bystander, if his fingers slipping under the hem of her tank top was anything to go by. Her sigh was hot against his neck as she arched into his cool touch. It was his swallow that brought her back from the brink. 

“Stop.” 

It was no surprise that even in his half-inebriated state, he took the word at face value and dropped his hands to his side, even if he didn’t quite step away. That was on her, and with more than a little reluctance, she did just that, taking two steps back.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” she said and was left alone in the middle of her living room, wondering what the hell had happened.

…..

The shower’s frosted doors blocked most of her view, but she still saw enough of his back and shoulders to fill in a few lonely nights in bed, admiring the way the water ran in rivulets through his short hair, down the tendons in his neck and between his shoulder blades. She felt a slice of guilt seeing him press his forehead against the stone tile and curbed her voyeurism by getting his attention with a small cough. 

Without turning around, he asked, “Here to wash my back, Sloane?”

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her flustered, she bit the inside of her lip and replied, “Next time. Right now, I’m just making sure you haven’t drown. And to leave you some clothes. Yours are still in the wash, but these should work.” She placed a small pile on the toilet seat, took another look, then closed the door.

His head returned to the tile, a little harder than it had the first time.

…..

He took a moment to just look at her, as he always did when he had the chance to do it unseen. Standing outside the bathroom, he could see down the end of the hall into the living room where the couch was angled to showcase her profile, her hair bundled on top of her head in the messy way that was still somehow sexy as hell, her tank drawing his eyes to her throat. Her glasses inexplicably made the whole image the best thing he had seen in ages, and he counted out the time he was given by the rise and fall of her breasts.

"I made coffee."

It startled him back to reality and he covered his guilt with a terse, "These belong to your motorcycle friend?"

She watched him walk down the hall, the sweats a little too short, the T-shirt a little too tight. Deciding that teasing him might not be the best idea at that moment, she said, "Yeah. Peter forgot them this morning." The shadow that crossed his face triggered the memory of Tim's words which lit the candle of realization. "That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

He had the balls to make himself at home by going into her kitchen for coffee. Tossing her glasses onto the table, she followed right behind. Getting no reply did nothing to stop her from pressing him on the issue.

"This case is over so you don't have a distraction." She watched him open and close cupboards, offering him no help. "Must be a hell of a weight if your beloved boat didn’t do the trick. How many ribs do you have to replace because you over-sanded?"

The third cupboard finally produced a mug which hit the counter harder than he had intended. "Two."

She reached for a second mug, a part of her hoping the similar action would put him at ease, another part frustrated by his inability or unwillingness to give an emotional inch. The sugar poured while she waited for a response she knew was never coming. Trying a different tactic, she said, "He slept on the couch." His snort stripped some of her goodwill. "What? A man and a woman can't spend the night in separate beds?" 

His noncommittal pouring of the coffee seemed to be his reply. His eye roll was the punctuation. 

"Why not?" she asked, though it was meant rhetorically. "We will."

"Yeah, but I'm not him."

Her brows created a deep line between her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He made a face that brushed off the question.

"No, no," she said, wagging a finger. "Not this-" she gave an exaggerated shrug. "Or this-" Her eye roll was the same. "You came here, at least 2 and a half sheets to the wind, under the pretense of returning my glasses. The least you can do is be honest with me." 

Brown eyes looked caramel in the kitchen glow, and he knew she was right.

"I didn't like it," he said simply, hoping she'd fill in the gaps.

The gaps had been filled the minute he'd made the comment about the borrowed clothes, but she wasn't going to let him avoid saying the thing he needed to admit and what she so needed to hear.

"Didn't like what?" she prodded. "The motorcycle? The fact he wasn't wearing a helmet? What?" His eyes went dark and his lips pressed tightly together, but she didn't care.

"I didn't like thinkin'-" Escape was nowhere to be found, and maybe he was tired of looking for one. "I didn't like thinkin' of you sleepin' with him."

"You mean in the biblical sense?"

He coughed out a laugh at her ability to turn things light. But she could just as easily turn it the other way.

“You mean, you didn’t like thinking of me kissing him? Me touching him?” She moved in closer, only half aware she was doing it.

“Stop.” Now it was his turn to say the word.

“Mmmm,” she said, as if his reaction was the last piece of evidence she needed. “You know who else wouldn’t like it? Peter’s husband.”

How he processed the information could be seen in his eyes- those expressive, piercing eyes, that went from dismay, to pain, to realization. The moment the light bulb went on in his eyes, she tapped his chin.

“Ah, there we go,” she whispered. "He's a dear, _skinny_ friend." Her hands brushed down the tight cotton that stretched across Gibbs' chest. The movement got a chuckle and another change in his eyes. "Who was celebrating his 50th birthday this weekend and gave me a ride back late Sunday. So you've got nothing to worry about." 

He contradicted his own confession. "Wasn't worried." That must've been the wrong thing to say, because her hands dropped and she stepped back. "Whattya want from me, Jack? Not gonna apologize for bein' a bastard."

"Never expected you to. An apology for showing up on my doorstep at 1 in the morning, reeking of Dutch courage and giving me hope would be nice, though." Seeing the confusion bloom across his face, she lightly grabbed his chin and searched his eyes. "Are you still drunk? Because when I said you had nothing to worry about, it wasn't just acknowledging your feelings, Gibbs. It was admitting mine, too."

He had expected her to be angry with him over his behaviour. God knew she wouldn't be the first woman to want to kneecap him. A large part of him expected her to be forgiving, because that was Jack all over. What he hadn't considered was a confession, a daring move to show herself in a way he could only dream. His reaction was delayed by his amazement, and she mistook it for rejection.

"Okay." Her voice was resigned. "I'll get you some blankets for the-"

The rest of her sentence was cut off in the most sudden yet gentlest of ways, with his lips on hers, not expecting, only waiting. She didn't make him wait long. 

Gripping his shoulders not out of surprise but of a 'Halle-fucking-lujah', she pulled him in and staked her claim. There was no hesitation in his reaction, his hands circling her waist and curling up and around her shoulder blades. Hips met like old friends, like their separation was only due to time. Her approving moan as her tongue touched his sent a charge through him, and she must have felt it because she kissed him harder before smiling against his lips.

"Been waitin' a long time to do that, Sloane?"

His smirk only made the light in her eyes go brighter. 

"Is that a question or a statement?"

He said nothing, even if his eyes said everything. 

"You're still sleeping on the couch," she told him. 

"Figured."

"Well," she admonished, seeing his disappointment, "next time don't show up on my doorstep with a scowl and reeking of 20 year old whiskey."

Nodding at the advice, he disentangled himself from her. "Be right back."

She frowned at the sudden change. "Where are you going?"

He only held up a finger, then proceeded to step out of her apartment. Her eyes roamed around the room, wondering what in the world he was doing. The knock on the door only added to her confusion. She turned the handle and swung it open, greeted by mischievous blue eyes and a broad smile.

"I showered," he announced, as if it said everything. 

It did.

Grabbing as much of the tight cotton as she could, she yanked him into the apartment and ordered, "Get in here," before her mouth was on his again.

…..

-end


End file.
